


Darling, we would look good

by jimmriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom Jim, M/M, Mirror Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:45:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4453529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimmriarty/pseuds/jimmriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you like what you see?”</p>
<p>Jim opens his eyes. What he sees in the mirror almost leaves him breathless. He has parted lips and bruised body and he’s fucking himself on Sherlock’s finger and it’s a vision so beautiful, so different from how he usually look that staring at his own reflection is almost as pleasant as Sherlock’s touches. Almost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darling, we would look good

For Jim Moriarty the world is a mix of faces and places that don’t have any meaning, scenarios and situations too ordinary and predictable to have some kind of influence on him. He always liked to think of himself as someone above all those trivialities and frivolities: a man capable of solving people’s problems with the most complex crimes but able to remain detached from them. He has never allowed the opinions of others to become important enough to touch him.

_Jim has never let the world change or mark him._

This principle can be observed in every aspect of his life, from the abstract and intellectual ones to the most carnal and ordinary like sex. Always half-dressed and always in control, even in the privacy Jim Moriarty has never let anyone close enough to really know him or leave a mark of their passage. Whoever the partner was – man, woman, stranger, employer – there was a fundamental rule: no bruises, scratches or hickeys. Looking in the mirror Jim had to see the white skin immaculate and without marks, a symbol of his own individuality. It has been that way for years.

_And yet…_ And yet now he can’t look away from the purple bruise that his reflection shows proudly on the neck. The hickey stands out as a splash of colour on an otherwise white canvas, shades ranging from dark red to purple mixed together to create something that makes Jim think of the galaxies he was obsessed with when he was a child. It’s not because of its visibility and contrast that he keeps staring at it, though. It’s somehow mesmerizing to see on his skin something that until then he has only seen on someone else body and while the index finger slides on the bruise and traces the outlines, he can’t help but think of the implications that the mere presence of the hickey brings.

For Sherlock he has found himself doing things that otherwise he would never have done. He exposed himself, emerging from the darkness that has always surrounded the name “Moriarty”. He destroyed decades of anonymity and meetings under false name, allowing not only his clients but also the public opinion to put a face to his person. He got caught. He even endured days and days of physical and psychological torture, bloody fingers and the sound of nails scratching the wall filling his days.

_All of this just for Sherlock._

Jim presses his thumb on the bruise and applies enough pressure to squeeze out a sigh from his parted lips. That’s not the only hickey he has: there are a couple more, smaller and scattered on his throat, placed where they can’t be covered by the collar of the shirts he always wear. There is a bite mark in the hollow of the right shoulder. There are scratches on the abdomen and bruises on his hips that have the shape of Sherlock’s fingers.

Jim looks in the mirror, big dark eyes that can’t stop staring at the marks and hands that slowly move on his body, pressing where it hurts most and pleasure is mixed with pain. When the nails stick in one of the bruises, Jim moves his hips forward, on his lips a moan that carries Sherlock’s name.

Behind him Jim hears the gentle and soft sound of moved sheets and bare feet on the floor. Sherlock appears completely naked in the mirror and the criminal can’t help but raise his lips in a small smile. The detective slips his arms around his waist – he places his hands exactly where they were the night before, recalling memories and thoughts that are enough to make Jim half-hard – and leaves a small and chaste kiss on his shoulder. It’s completely different from the ones that he has given just a few hours before. It’s an intimate and delicate gesture, a soft moment in a relationship made of bites and provocations, of pointed corners and sharp edges.

It’s something they can indulge in only on certain occasions. It’s when they have let out the energy that inexorably draws them together that they can linger in what really is the base of their relationship, that need to be understood without having to use words and the certainty of not being alone in the world because there is someone who is your reflection. 

Sherlock’s eyes, bright and observant, look at him through the mirror: blue irises run down from his face to his body, stopping on each mark for a couple of seconds. Jim has no doubt that the detective’s mind is now filling up with information and data, predictions about how long it will take before they disappear altogether. The thought bothers him. He doesn’t like when Sherlock thinks in moments like that, when they stop the game for a while to focus on something deeper and down to earth at the same time.

Jim turns so he can kiss Sherlock and silence the incessant noise of his brain. The first kiss is small and delicate, a gesture that doesn’t reflect the desire in his eyes. The second is more intense, tongues touching and mouths seeking each other. When their lips meet for the third time the kiss is more passionate and desperate, full of that primitive destructive need that will always lead their lives. Jim keeps kissing him, teeth closed around his lower lip and hips moving forward against Sherlock’s.

It doesn’t pass long before they are both hard and their kisses are interspersed with moans that are suffocated by their mouths clashing together again and again.

“Sherlock…” sighs Jim, grinding against him to cause friction between their erections. “Fuck me. Here.” He says, only few inches away from his lips.

The surprise that for a moment he can see in Sherlock’s eyes forces him to hold back a laugh. In his clear irises there is a veil of perplexity that is almost childish, a naivety due to inexperience that is so genuine that brings a smile on Jim’s lips. He can almost hear his thoughts – “Having sex here? It would be uncomfortable”, “I have to go and get the lube?”, “He wants to do it right here in front of the mirror or against the wall?” – and for some reason he finds them incredibly funny.

“What?” Using his lowest and most obscene voice, Jim rolls his tongue around every syllable. He raises his lips in that predator smile that Sherlock simply can’t resist. “You don’t want me anymore?” He asks and as soon as the words leave his mouth, Sherlock shakes his head. _He’s cute, really._

Jim turns once again so he can look in the mirror and Sherlock leaves him to get the lube lying on the small table beside the bed. He hasn’t even made three steps when Jim calls him.

“Oh, there is no need to use it.” He says, with the same nonchalance he would use to talk about the weather. “I may or may not have woken up before you and played a little with myself.” He adds, tongue licking his lower lip as he sees Sherlock blink a few times and swallow hard.

"You could have woken me up.” He simply replies, approaching Jim again.

“I could have, yes. But I like the idea of getting ready for you.”

“I’m not sure I like it, though.”

Sherlock's hands are on his hips again but they are holding him tighter than before and the pressure he exerts on the bruises is enough to make a small moan escape Jim’s lips. Clearly, the thought of the criminal masturbating instead of having sex with him bothers him.

“Oh that’s cute, you’re jealous of me too!” The little laugh on Jim’s lips becomes a moan when Sherlock bites him hard on the neck. Neither of them move their gaze from the reflection.

Jim always liked his possessiveness. If outside sex he finds annoying his egocentrism and his “I know you are obsessed with me and I am the only one that makes you alive” attitude, when they are in bed Sherlock’s need to be always in control becomes incredibly erotic and exciting. (Of course Sherlock has the situation in hand only apparently. They both know it.)

“You asked me to fuck you here because you want to see yourself while I do it, isn’t it?”

“No shit Sherlock.”

The detective stays silent for a moment. Only after a bunch of seconds he raises his right hand to Jim’s mouth. The criminal doesn’t think twice before sucking the tip of the index. The tongue moves slowly and, when the finger disappears between his lips, Jim’s movements become even more exaggerated and vulgar just to put on a visually striking show. Looking in the mirror they both think of how pretty Jim would look on his knees, a cock to fill his mouth and stifle his moans. Another day, maybe.

Sherlock puts another finger inside Jim’s mouth, but the criminal doesn’t have the time to lick it enough because the detective pulls both of them out. He has never been a very patient man, after all.

Sherlock doesn’t waste time to ask him if he’s ready and not: without saying another word he lowers his hand and teases his hole just a little before getting a finger inside him in one movement, making Jim groan only partly for show.

The finger has a pace that is not fast enough: Sherlock touches him everywhere except the points that Jim really wants to be hit, moving in a way that can’t really give him what he wants. The moan that comes out his lips is full of frustration and unspoken desire, of “stop playing and fuck me properly” that is not expressed in words but is palpable in the air. Sherlock raises the corners of his mouth in a half smile – the one that comes to life on his face every time he enjoys a particularly complex crime scene, the little grin that Jim wants to bite off his lips – and increases the frequency of the pushes, making Jim close his eyes and move his hips to meet his finger, his left hand now against the wall for stability.

“Do you like what you see?”

Jim opens his eyes. What he sees in the mirror almost leaves him breathless. He has parted lips and bruised body and he’s fucking himself on Sherlock’s finger and it’s a vision so beautiful, so different from how he usually look that staring at his own reflection is almost as pleasant as Sherlock’s touches. Almost.

“I would like it more if you added another finger.” He answers, shifting his gaze on the detective’s face. Sherlock does what he is told and puts the middle finger in.

"Better?" He asks, a teasing smile on his lips and Jim just don’t know how to reply.

On one hand he got what he wanted, but on the other Sherlock keeps hitting right next to the point capable of making him scream and _really_ , it’s incredibly frustrating. Of course the detective knows it. He’s doing it on purpose, just to take a little revenge on what Jim did that morning. The index and the middle fingers spread out and then every hypothetical answer in Jim’s mind vanishes like smoke on a windy day because _oh_ , it feels so good and talking seems a waste of time now.

"Do you want me to fuck you?”

Sherlock’s voice is a hoarse scratching that sounds even more indecent than the words themselves. It’s probably the hottest sound Jim has ever heard in his whole life.

“Yes.”

On another occasion Sherlock wouldn’t be satisfied with that answer. He would have teased him with fingers and tongue for an almost infinite amount of time, bringing him near the climax only to stop altogether. He would have left him panting and excited on the bed, with his cock hard and a plea on his lips. Only then, when Jim’s attitude would have been submissive enough to him – enough to satisfy his desire to dominate the only person in the world that is not limited by rules or laws – he would have given him what he wanted. Now, however, they are both too aroused. The very moment Jim sees Sherlock’s face he knows that the detective won’t waste time anymore.

Sherlock penetrates him without delicacy. Even if Jim has prepared himself properly before the other woke up, the sudden intrusion is followed by a slight pain that makes him groan. Despite the burning sensation the moan on his lips is one of pleasure. Jim always liked a bit of pain.

After a brief look with which Sherlock makes sure the other is at ease – the detective could be impetuous sometimes, but he knows that sex has to be a pleasant experience for both of them – he starts moving. The  thrusts aren’t too fast at first and it’s only after a while that the pace increases and _oh_ , Sherlock finally hits just the right point and Jim moans turn into litanies of “yes, right there”, “faster” and “look how beautiful we look”.

What he sees in the mirror is actually amazing and wonderful.

Sherlock is fucking him, one hand on his hip and one on his chest to support him, thrusting faster and faster while Jim… _well,_ he’s completely abandoned to the detective. With parted lips and flushed cheeks, he pushes back, body covered with bruises and sweat that moves in unison with Sherlock’s. Sherlock could do what he wants to and Jim would let him, because when it comes to him Jim would do anything. The criminal looks in the mirror and seeing his obscene expression full of pleasure he can’t help but notice that the “you can do anything you want to me” he said several months before has finally became real. No one could treat him like that. Sherlock, however, can fuck him or take care of him, appreciate him or destroy him, breaking his body and his mind into a thousand pieces. Jim would even allow the detective to open and dissect him, if only that could help Sherlock to understand him better.

Sherlock can do what he wants because he’s the only person in the world with which Jim can connect and have a bond, the only one capable of making that feeling of emptiness and boredom that follows the criminal like a impalpable fog go away for a while.

It’s what those thoughts in mind and Sherlock inside himself that Jim reaches the climax, coming on the mirror. Sherlock follows a little later, suffocating Jim’s name in his shoulder. Before pulling out, the detective leaves a small kiss on the neck, one of those rare sweet intimate gestures that for them are more important than any declaration. Jim smiles.

“One day we could do it again.” Jim says, turning to Sherlock and finally looking at him without the help of the mirror. “But now we should clean, it’s quite a mess.” He adds, referring to the glass surface dirty of sperm.

For only one moment, Jim considers the idea of kneeling and licking it off. From the way Sherlock is looking at him he probably had the same thought – _great minds think alike, isn’t it?_ – but before he can say something, the criminal waves a hand in the air, as to silence that unspoken exchange of ideas. They don’t need to rush it. They have all the time in the world to make their fantasies real.

"First I want to take a shower." Jim heads for the bathroom. He doesn’t turn to Sherlock when he opens his mouth again to ask one last question. “Care to join me?”


End file.
